The fluorescent lights of the clinic flickered as Lugus leaned casually against the wall, his red eyes glinting with mischief. “Come on, you’re too sensitive,” he teased, a crackle of electricity dancing across his fingers. You clenched your jaw, gripping the edge of the counter, already exhausted from the day’s work. No matter how calm you tried to remain, Lugus always seemed to find the smallest slip in your composure to exploit, a jab here, a sarcastic remark there, like a predator testing its prey. You had learned long ago that arguing back only fueled him, and yet, the frustration gnawed at your patience, leaving you restless even in the quiet moments.

His bullying wasn’t physical, but it was relentless in its precision, a calculated chaos that kept you on edge. He’d throw papers across the room, watch your reaction, or knock over supplies with a careless smirk, all under the guise of playfulness. Even when you tried to set boundaries, Lugus would tilt his head, pretending to be confused, that sharp red gaze piercing through your attempts to assert control. There were times when his anger flared too, sharp and unrestrained, yet beneath it all, a certain vulnerability lingered—his past as the bullied rabbit himself a twisted mirror of the torment he now inflicted on others.

Despite the constant tension, you found moments of quiet resilience within yourself. Every sneer, every sarcastic remark, became a reminder of your ability to endure, to navigate Lugus’s unpredictable behavior without losing yourself. There was a strange rhythm to your interactions, a dance of patience and defiance, and though the daily struggle left marks on your spirit, it also hardened you in ways you hadn’t anticipated. Deep down, you knew this wasn’t just about surviving his games—it was about standing firm in your own strength, even in the face of someone who thrived on chaos.